


Honey, I Shrunk the Kids

by AnalystProductions



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Clara is the boss, Comedy, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Gen, Shenanigans, What Have I Done, based on that film you know the one, not that kind of shenanigans though stop it you cheeky devil, ooops Eleven shrunk the kids, title says it all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2013-06-02
Packaged: 2017-12-13 18:57:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/827692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnalystProductions/pseuds/AnalystProductions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All she had to do was change her dirty t-shirt and shove a pair of comfy jeans on, hardly something of monumental importance. Nonetheless, the Doctor insists that he will watch the kids so she can "brush her hair or whatever it is girls spend too much time doing". Nothing of monumental importance could occur in the space of five minutes…right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honey, I Shrunk the Kids

**Author's Note:**

> I had this idea when I was getting nostalgic and remembering the film "Honey I shrunk the kids" and just had to write it- because it would be so cool and I could totally see this happening.
> 
> Enjoy! Probably be a few chapters long or something.

All she had to do was change her dirty t-shirt and shove a pair of comfy jeans on, this is hardly something of monumental importance. Nonetheless, a jovial Doctor _insists,_ almost too enthusiastically, that he will watch over the kids as Mr.Maitland pops out, allowing her an hour or so of peace to herself upstairs in her room so she can “brush her hair or whatever it is girls spend too much time doing”. Whilst she’s grateful and touched by the gesture – it _has_ been a hell of a long day after all, being chased by an alien species and saving the world _again_ –in hindsight perhaps this was the worst idea the Doctor had _ever_ had (and there had been a whole load of those pesky things). She grew a little worried that the kids will try to play blind-man’s buff or hide and never-seek with the poor, unaware spaceman. Thus, she leaves the Doctor with the kids for five minutes, possibly even _less_.

Nothing of monumental importance could occur in the space of five minutes… _right?_

Oh, if only past Clara _knew_ how ironic that statement was right now (past Clara being the now Clara who was bounding down the stairs, blissfully unaware)!

As she reaches the bottom of the stairs and enters the surprisingly clean kitchen (he’s _definitely_ done the dishes again, whether he’ll admit to it or not), her brow furrows. The Doctor is standing, _silently_ of all things. He is a dramatic contrast to the cheerful man who could hardly stop fidgeting like a restless child five minutes ago. His eyes are comically wide, a peculiar expression settling on his face. He has one hand on the kitchen worktop, the other clenched into a gentle fist by his side.

Clara knows more than anyone that the Doctor can be the very epitome of contradiction and juxtaposition. She is almost too quick to shrug off his disposition as she takes another step into the kitchen. Her eyes dart around the room, and she discards the snarky remark about the dishes bubbling up inside, because just this _once_ he’s actually gone and done it _right_ and that absolutely does _not_ fill her with a pleasing yet strange tingly feeling.

Instead, she eyes up the abandoned pear in the speckled fruit bowl. Reaching for it, she takes a bite and glances back at the Doctor. At first she assumes he’s flinching because she’s audacious enough to eat a _ghastly pear_ in front of him (– especially after he did the _dishes!)_. She knows how much he _hates_ pears. Nonetheless, in light of the burning question in her mind, she’s _stupid_ to disregard his actions so casually. Perplexed, she folds her arms over her chest, leaning against the worktop beside him; he inches away from her subtly.

“Where are the kids?” she asks between another mouthful of pear.

Eyes roaming anywhere but her, the Doctor scratches the back of his head absently. He appears to be distracted but _totally_ focused - a worrying paradox. Refraining from munching on the pear, Clara raises her eyebrows at him curiously. He jumps a little when his gaze meets hers. Adjusting his bowtie slowly, he swallows-hard. He tries; he _really_ tries to pretend he didn’t hear her words. It’s just, _well,_ he’s not too good at implementing feigned indifference right now.

“…hm?”

It’s in that _exact_ moment, when his voice falters and his eyes are unable to sustain contact with hers that she _knows._ At first all she can feel is _panic,_ sheer panic because oh _god_ what _has_ he done to them? – Then concern because _he_ looks concerned and that is _never_ a good thing- ever. The next emotion that hits her is deep, insatiable rage because for crying out _loud_ it’s been _four minutes and twenty-seven seconds_ since she left him to his own devices. This is certainly a _new_ record for him to stumble into some kind of trouble. Clara saunters towards him in a predatory manner, eyes blazing with fire and a firm scowl on her face.

“ _Where._ Are. they?” she accentuates every syllable, and each word has a sharp bite to it. The delivery is as forceful as a jab to the arm would be – he’s _very_ certain of that. She’s hit him before, _twice_ and it _really, really_ hurt. The Doctor jumps backwards in alarm. This is his first mistake.

“Now… _Clara,”_ he stutters nervously, scanning the kitchen for shelter; he settles meekly for his second mistake: a bland, stainless steel dining tray. The way he says her name is enough verification that something _has_ happened, besides the fact he’s now cowering behind a tea-tray like a _child._ Clenching his eyes shut, the Doctor holds the tray in front of his face in pure _fear_ of the maternal instinct within her burning him. 

“Before you _freak out_ or try to physically assault me _\- ”_ he peeks over the tray; she picks up the ladle on the side wrathfully. Immediately, he ducks under the tray for protection and circles her blindly.

A few seconds later, he risks glancing over the tray again. He’s greeted by a _livid_ Clara Oswald, the ladle firmly in grasp between her folded arms. His shoulders slump in brief relief, a small sigh escaping his lips. It appears she’s given up the attempts to physically destroy him, which is good, _very good._ However, there is still the unlikely possibility that she might suddenly transform into a fire-breathing dragon and incinerate him without warning.

With the look she’s giving him, he thinks it _could_ happen.

She _is_ the impossible girl after all.

Reluctantly, he puts the tray down and holds out one hand as a barrier.

“Let me explain-”

“-Explain. Eleven seconds. _Now._ ” She orders with a ferocity that suggests she _really_ is the boss and he better not dare disobey. Meeting her eyes for a moment, he bites his lip. When he sees her fingers twitch around the ladle, his words spew from his lips in an incomprehensible, _embarrassing_ jumble.

“Y-you _have_ to understand that I-I told them, I was _very clear._ I was.” Pause. Indignant huff. “They _pinky promised_ not to-”

Clara feels her angry resolve break. She puts the ladle down, unable to take _not knowing_ any longer. This is a thousand year old alien she’s talking to, who has a time machine that can go anywhere and _everywhere-_ the possibilities are _endless._ She attempts to dismiss the violent lurch of her stomach, because she _trusts him,_ she trusts blindly and wholeheartedly without a doubt _._ But it’s painfully clear that _something_ has happened. Voice quiet and uncertain, she gazes up at him with vacant eyes. He catches her poorly masked anxiety and leans a little closer to her. He never wants to see Clara Oswald wearing anything _but_ a smile; well, wearing clothes too - evidently - but that’s besides the point _\- oh shut-up, stupid, stupid brain._

“What did you _do_?”

There is compassion in her voice, and even though he _knows_ she is going to flip out, he lets out the long breath he’s been holding. For a moment their eyes remain locked, a silent exchange stretches out across the kitchen. _I’m sorry._ And. _Just tell me please, Doctor._ Then, the Doctor brings his closed hand to the worktop and opens it hesitantly. Gasping, Clara watches as two miniscule figures fall out of his hands and onto the marble surface. Honestly- she didn’t know _what_ to expect and it’s better than them being seriously hurt…but _oh my stars_ she never expected _this!_ Eyes wide, Clara crouches down to their level. They’re as small as the people from that film she used to watch as a kid (The Borrowers?). The Doctor squats beside her, studying the miniaturised kids.

 _“Honey_ , I shrunk the kids.” The Doctor declares in a manner far too _casual_ for her liking. Does he find this…amusing? No. Not amusing. Fascinating. He’s finding this _fascinating._ Unable to conceal his grin, the Doctor is lost in his own thoughts: he’s _always_ wanted to say that. His grin savagely dematerialises once she turns her attention to him, and he’s ninety-eight percent sure that he’s just said _all_ of that aloud. “Well not always, ha! _Obviously_ NOT right now, I never wanted to- OW!”

Jolting away from the table dramatically, he clutches his arm. He grimaces, because _that hurt._ Apathetic to his protests of pain, she stalks forwards and the irritation boiling beneath her skin has multiplied, ready to metamorphose into a dangerous fury.

“I leave you with them for _five minutes,_ and you manage to…” mouth moving up and down in disbelief, she holds a hand to her head, glancing back at the specs on the work-surface. “ _Shrink them!_ I can’t-“ her words stop as her eyes meet the familiar alien technology sitting on the kitchen table conspicuously. It’s _so_ conspicuous she can’t believe she didn’t notice it yet alone Mr.Maitland! The Doctor glances over to the object and offers a charming smile that is diluted by his apprehension because now she’s _really_ mad because her eyebrows seem to almost knot together to form one large crease in her forehead.

“You bought the shrink ray _inside?!”_ she yells, not caring that her voice is echoing around the kitchen and probably through the entire street. “I _told_ you to leave it in the TARDIS-”

“-Stop shouting you’re hurting their ears can’t you see?” he gestures towards the kitchen worktop before pulling his hands over his ears. “and _mine.”_

She blinks slowly two times as if the action is maintaining her whole composure, and somehow that gesture alone is utterly terrifying. The Doctor glances over at the tea-tray he’s discarded. It’s too far away, unless he lunges towards it, and he doesn’t think Clara would appreciate the theatrical gesture. Besides, his arm _hurts,_ and his _ears!_ Deciding the Doctor is in _no position_ to grumble about his own wellbeing, Clara purses her lips tightly and feels her voice practically explode around her.

“I’ll hurt more than your _ears_ in a minute,” her eyes linger on the tip of his face pointedly. “Including that insufferable chin!”

“What’s _wrong_ with my chin?!” the Doctor barks back at equal volume, both hands cupping his face defensively. “Now I think you’re overreacting-” his groping hands muffle his words, and he _prays_ she doesn’t hear them. But oh, _of course she does._ Nothing gets past Miss Oswald, little miss clever. Her expression morphs into one of dark surprise.

“ _Me_?” She leans in towards him brazenly, voice low. “Mr.Maitland will be back in _one_ hour, just so you know. _How_ do you expect me to tell _him_ that his kids are now the size of….” She throws her hands up into the air, as if that articulates precisely what she’s trying to say. It doesn’t. She tries again a few seconds later. “ _Polly pockets?!”_

He’s _got_ to know what Polly Pockets are. She’s right, he does but in this moment, the Doctor can only focus on one thing. Right now he truly believes that although she’s whispering it’s just as terrifying, if not _more_ so, as her shout. Settling for nonchalance, because he can’t admit even to _himself_ how scared he is right now of a little _earth girl_ with a funny nose and short skirts, the Doctor supresses a bitter chuckle. He’s fought the Daleks, the _Cybermen_ , the Weeping Angels, hundreds of frightening foes. Yet the ferocity of this woman when it comes to the children in her care – that is certainly _not_ a force to be reckoned with or taken lightly.

“Relax Clara,” he says, proud that he’s managed to somehow keep his voice even. “This situation is _totally_ reversible-”

“-It _better be_ because this is totally your fault!” she snaps back.

“-My fault?!” cautiously, he treads around her to move towards the kitchen table. Pointing clumsily as if it is adds meaning to his words, he stares at her imploringly. “I left the shrink ray on the table. I _hardly_ expected Angie and Artie to play around with it after I told them specifically _not_ to touch it!”

His response ignites a twinge of guilt and sympathy within Clara. He looked truly _clueless,_ at a loss as to how and why this had even happened. Groaning, she holds a hand to her forehead. She shouldn’t have left him with the kids; they could be a handful when they wanted to be. It was a terrible idea. This is _her_ fault. No. But it was only for _five minutes!_ For god’s sake he was a thousand-year-old-or-whatever alien. If he couldn’t handle two _children_ by now then there really _was_ no hope for the rest of the universe. It was _his_ fault, definitely his.

The Doctor is so crestfallen and downhearted when she looks at him that it distinguishes the initial anger inside. Smiling dismally, Clara gently rubs the spot on his arm she’d previously whacked with a ladle, a hushed apology.

“Kids _never_ do what you say,” she says softly, comfortingly. “ _Especially_ if you tell them _not_ to do something.”

Instinctively, the Doctor grabs her shoulders, locking their eyes together with such intensity that Clara doesn’t _want_ to look away, she wants to stand there forever and search those ageless orbs.

“I’ll get them both back to normal size don’t you worry my dear Clara,” his eyes twinkle with a promise that Clara trusts entirely. “I’ve saved them before remember? And you have to admit that was _far more_ dangerous than now.” She nods in agreement as his eyes leave her beautiful face and land on the worktop behind them. “I mean at least _now_ they’re in plain sight-”

His words come to an abrupt halt; the Doctor’s wide eyes are fixated on the spot behind her. He grapples with his sentence for a moment, gawking like the strange type of fish she remembers Artie showed her on google once.  

“I…I think we might have a _slight_ problem Clara Oswald.”

She studies his gaze for a few seconds in concern.

“What, Doctor _what is it_?"

When he doesn’t reply, she spins around to see what has his attention.

“Angie? Artie?” she calls out in shock, rushing over to where they had once been standing. The Doctor follows swiftly, pulling out his sonic screwdriver. He holds a hand to his face, pulling a befuddled expression. Leaning over her, he gasps. _The_ little, miniature Daleks. Scratching his head, he stalks back and forth in agitation. Clara stops him in his tracks, grabbing his arm and dragging his face down to her level.

“Where are they? _Doctor!_ ” she yells, this time truly worried because the children are _so_ vulnerable and tiny that she could accidentally crush them with her fingers alone. She can’t even bear to _think_ about what normal everyday appliances could do to them.

“The garden.” He answers.

In any normal situation this would be _perfectly_ fine. The garden isn’t that big _after all_ and there’s only so far two miniature people can go in the space of a few minutes. But this was _not_ a normal situation, oh not at all. Nor was it a _normal_ day. Clara stumbles a little into the Doctor’s arms, startled. She feels uncharacteristically faint, not that she’d ever admit it out loud despite her entire body suggesting it.

“ _Clara,_ Clara what’s wrong?” The Doctor asks urgently, cupping her face in his hands and stroking the skin with such tenderness.

“Jim…Jim comes every other Wednesday.”

It was at that precise that moment that a rearing buzz sounded from outside. The sound was easily identifiable. Snapping out of her daze, Clara turned to the Doctor in horror. He mirrored her expression, their eyes wide and mouths agape. No matter what is going on in the universe, what future enemies linger in the shadows - there is no sound more terrible, more fearsome than this sound emanating from the garden.

It's the sound of a lawnmower.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked - comments & feedback are love <3


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